


A Meaning Behind Every Little Thing

by sanguinity



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Discussion of Torture, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e21 A Landmark Story, Episode: s02e22 Paint it Black, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought he could cross any line for Watson's life. The one line he can't bring himself to cross, however, is one set by Watson herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meaning Behind Every Little Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag for 1x21 "A Landmark Story," and a missing scene from 2x22 "Paint it Black." Spoilers for both.
> 
> Warning for discussions and planning of torture.

"About your meeting with Douglas," Watson began, and Sherlock doubled-down his attention to his task, knowing he wouldn't like where this might go. "I appreciate that you brought a bunch of legos to that meeting, instead of things you could actually use for torture. Believe me, I really do." 

"Don't give me too much credit, Watson. I could have scattered the legos across the floor and made Douglas walk about barefoot."

"Sherlock," Watson said, and the chill in her voice made him still. "You're not in a position to be making torture jokes, not after the thing with Moran."

That was entirely fair, considering.

"As I was saying," she continued, "I really do appreciate you making it absolutely clear to both me and Captain Gregson that you went to that meeting with no intent to seriously harm Douglas."

That required no response, and so he made none.

"However, if you value our partnership, you will never again use my medical paraphernalia to threaten torture." He didn't understand the inflection of her voice, and looked up. "Yes, I am aware," she continued, "that many medical doctors supervise and even participate in torture, and that the presence of a medical bag very effectively calls up shades of..." She hesitated, then stopped completely.

"Certain psycho-social narratives," he offered after a moment, attempting to ease her over the hump, "the horror in which is fueled by the perversion of ordinarily benevolent..." She held up a peremptory hand, not looking at him. When she yelled, everything was fine—or close enough to fine as to make no difference—but she only refused to look at him when they were on treacherous ground.

"I was going to say 'Dr. Mengele.'"

His brain stalled with the effort of trying to superimpose any part of Mengele onto Watson, even through the inanimate object of a medical bag. "Ah," he said, seeing the problem. "When doctors go wrong—"

"—they become the worst of criminals. Yes, you've said. I may not be a doctor anymore, but there is a sacredness to the calling that..." Again she hesitated. "That I still feel profoundly. If you value your partnership with me, you will never, _never_ again use my medical tools as part of a torture threat. I can't be a part of that. I _won't_ be a part of that, Sherlock."

"Understood, Watson." Her ability to fix people was extraordinary, and if she saw his actions as a perversion of that drive, well, that was not the legacy he wanted in her life. "Never fear, it will not happen again. I can acquire my own—"

"No. No medical paraphenalia. None. This is a hard stop for me, do you understand that?" Her voice vibrated with the intensity of her feeling. 

The threat that Watson could leave him over this was implicit. He bit down on his impulse to go on the offensive.

"Sherlock. I need to know that you understand." 

He inhaled. "Yes, of course I understand," he said, and returned his eyes, if not his attention, to his work.

 *****

He and Mycroft had perhaps fifteen minutes remaining before Yoder would arrive. Sherlock had already looked in on the kitchen, where his brother was showing a rare bout of foresight, generously lapping the plastic dropcloths without Sherlock's specific direction. It proved that even an idiot could be trained to think, given the right influence.

Yoder was a trained commando, and might be difficult to break. Given sufficient time, everyone breaks, but he and Mycroft were nearing the end of their forty-eight hours, and Sherlock didn't have the luxury of time. He would need every psychological tool he could bring to bear on Yoder, which meant using the slight edge Watson's medical bag. He had no illusions that Watson would be slow to forgive—if she ever forgave—what he and Mycroft were about to do. Bringing her medical bag into it would ultimately make little difference to her feelings. Compared to the odds of her surviving the day... He should be so lucky that her forgiveness would become an issue. 

Most of the things Watson had brought into their home had eventually migrated to the third-floor lumber room: that they were there instead of in their common spaces or her room was a source of unending frustration to him. Her medical bag was just inside the door, exactly where she had left it when she had brought it up after the drama with Douglas. It was slightly dusty, but the finish was still in good nick. It would serve Sherlock's purpose well. 

He opened it and reached inside to remove the legos—because of course Watson's priority had been to get it out of her sight, not to put everything away properly—when he was taken by the memory of Watson standing dumbstruck, legos raining through her fingers. She had gone electric when she had spotted the bag that morning, and her look of confused gratitude when she discovered that her bag had not contained nightmares... 

He shook the bag out violently, scattering legos wide across the floor. When that did not relieve his feelings, he hurled the bag across the room. (And it was wrong, _wrong_ , that Watson was not there to rebuke him for it.) He stood there, breathing hard, trying to gather himself.

 _Call her Joan. Anyone can be a Joan._  

He had been the worst kind of irrational all through this, every little thing setting him off, and now it was the damned _bag_. It felt deeply unlucky to use the thing, as if he would be sealing Watson's— _Joan's_ —fate if he did.

He strode across the room, skittering on hard plastic as he went. There were other cases up here that he could use instead.

The one he finally selected had vaguely medical lines, but without the clever inner compartments that marked it as a true doctor's bag. It was the worst kind of lie: obeying the letter of the dictum while violating the spirit, and then pretending that it would have any affect on Joan's judgement of him in the end. He despised himself for his weakness, but grabbed the bag and headed back for the stairs.

As he moved around the brownstone, gathering tools into the bag, he found his hand hesitating over anything with medical overtones. Even the box cutter: there were terrible things one could do with a box cutter, but its position in his hand was too much like that of a surgical scalpel. ( _He and Watson not having a moment, the scalpel gleaming as steadily as a lighthouse, conducting light between them._ ) He left the box cutter where it was, and told himself it was only pragmatism: he couldn't afford to bring into Yoder's presence anything that might cause him to hesitate.

He strode back downstairs and placed the case to the side of the kitchen table, which was now draped dramatically in plastic, right down to the floor. His brother's taste for clichés had some uses.

He turned to Mycroft. "Are you ready?"

Mycroft's gaze ran over him, then the bag on the table. For an irritating moment, Sherlock could see the intelligent man his brother might have been, had he ever chosen to apply himself. Mycroft frowned. "Are _you_ ready?"

Sherlock bounced once on his toes in frustration. "Of course I'm ready."

His brother inspected him a moment longer, then nodded, utterly phlegmatic. "As am I." 

"Well, then," Sherlock said, and gestured for his brother to precede him. Sherlock touched the not-a-medical-bag, and climbed the stairs to wait for Yoder.


End file.
